


the golden hour

by monomania



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Photographer, Anal Sex, Art, Art Investor Victor Nikiforov, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Falling In Love, Fluff and Humor, M/M, Oral Sex, Photographer Katsuki Yuuri, Photography, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-08
Updated: 2018-05-08
Packaged: 2019-05-04 03:18:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14583786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/monomania/pseuds/monomania
Summary: When Viktor inherits the delicate product of a curious form of art, his interest is piqued, feeling as if the fresh breeze of the first day of spring has finally arrived at his doorstep.He's even more intrigued, however, by the wonderful contradiction that is his new gardener and Bonsai Curator, Toshiya Katsuki's son and his late grandfather's old apprentice—Yuuri, who looks just like apainting; something befitting of one of the Old Masters, profoundly emotional and astoundingly beautiful in its own way.





	the golden hour

**Author's Note:**

  * For [izzyisozaki](https://archiveofourown.org/users/izzyisozaki/gifts).



> yet another something dedicated to The Gift to Humanity™, @izzyisozaki! most of the outline for this is actually of her ownership, but she gave me permission to work with the idea! i also took a ~~lot~~ few liberties with the plot in general, but oh well ᕕ( ᐛ )ᕗ 
> 
> also, a huuuge thank you to @ryneisaterriblefan, who kindly beta'd this fic for me! (Ｔ▽Ｔ)♡
> 
> EDIT: the original author of this plot bunny, @izzyisozaki, has written a spin-off in yuuri's POV - featuring new moments for the AU! it was done beautifully and i highly recommend you read it as well ♥ here you go: https://goo.gl/N7eTe1 !
> 
> without further ado, i hope you enjoy!

Viktor Nikiforov is passionate about his work.

Well, maybe _passionate_ is too strong a word. Usually, he attributes his devotion to the simple-minded desire to bring beautiful things to the spotlight, and considering he has little else going for him other than Art, it’s hard not to cling onto it with all he has—a few millions of dollars, that is. Even the expanse of his mansion and the seemingly never-ending extent of his wealth don’t appear to be enough to make the skin surrounding him less uncomfortable, although the expensive artistry in careful, private exhibits about his many living rooms tend to help from time to time, if only for a few hours.

(Yet, it feels like his home is outright barren, empty corners doubling on its size and pushing away any resemblance of attempts to suffocate his melancholic tendencies. The acquiescence of his isolation has a bitter aftertaste, seeping through all he comes in contact to: friends, family, hobbies, work. He’d very much like to say that, at the very least, money is able to buy happiness in his stead—but Viktor knows better than anyone that it’s nothing but a cruel myth.)

Makkachin also seems to like the artwork, or at least the sculptures, and appears quite sad when they leave to make rotations from his home to the office in the downtown area of the city, away from her curious snout and odd tendencies to scratch the space surrounding all craftsmanship he offers shelter to.

He’s had paintings of all kinds, and of all sorts of people, ranging from the Old Masters and lesser names known worldwide to artists in small exhibits at god-forsaken corners of the world—he’s an Art Investor, after all, and only betting his money on seasoned artists who refuse to abandon their formula for something new not always brings the best results. The public wants innovation, wants a _surprise,_ and so does Viktor.

Which brings him to his newest fascination.

“Bonsai?” Chris asks curiously, finally dropping his gaze off of all the paperwork in his hands despite the fact they’ve been talking for nearly ten minutes.

“Indeed,” Viktor nods—something new! _How exciting,_ he thinks. “Apparently, my grandfather back in Russia was quite fond of them, and left his entire collection in my care.”

A frown. “Why?”

“He died,” he provides, matter-of-factly and without a hint of grief. “I’ve hired a private jet to collect them; it should arrive in a day or two.”

His personal assistant and oldest of friends gapes, if only for a moment, before returning to his usual demeanor with a shake of his head. Scratching the trimmed stubble at his chin as he allows himself to be engrossed by actually relevant details of his work, Chris only has half a mind to crush Viktor’s excitement for good.

“And do you know how to care for them?”

“Oh,” Viktor lets out without missing a beat, because of course, _of course_ he doesn’t.

Spending hours over hours researching pictures alone and proceeding to fall in love with such an exquisite form of art doesn’t translate to having any expertise on how nursing them back to health, if anything at all.

“ _Oh_ ,” he echos himself, kicking his own ego underneath the table.

Biting back a snort, his friend hums knowingly.

“Yeah, I figured. You would’ve been more business-like, otherwise. Maybe there would be even a list of possible sponsors for a new bonsai ‘master,’ as you say, or something equally in-depth—even at such a short notice. Your excitement always gets the best of you.”

“Is that such a bad thing?”

Chris hesitates as he’s faced with the rare display of uncertainty; he knows Viktor’s head hasn’t been in a good place for a while, now. It had been difficult to notice anything under that magazine-worthy smile of his, but that’s the kind of discernment that years of friendship will grant you. At the corner of Viktor’s cerulean eyes, he catches a spark of hope, and at last decides to offer him some sort of encouragement. Fetching a notebook from one of the drawers at his desk, for once grateful of convincing himself to write down absolutely every single nonsense Viktor spouts during his brainstorming sessions and the many creative meltdowns, he’s graced with an old piece of intel that’s ought to give him some peace of mind.

“Not at all, my friend,” he says, handing Viktor a small note with a name and a phone number. “If that’s your new obsession—hell, I say go for it.”

Viktor takes the paper off his grasp, free hand flying up to his forehead as well as the space between his eyebrows when a frown threatens to seep out; he’s been avoiding wrinkles for ages, and he refuses to let go of habits simply because of, of…

“Toshiya Katsuki?” he quips, careful with the pronunciation around the uncommon syllables.

“An acquaintance of your grandfather, I believe. The late Mr. Nikiforov spoke highly of Mr. Katsuki’s family as high-end professional gardeners of varied kinds; maybe they’ll be able to help you.”

The Russian blinks at him, startled.

“You spoke to my grandfather?”

A beat.

“Viktor, he came to Detroit last Thanksgiving.”

That only serves Viktor, who most certainly spent the entire holiday buried under work as a coping mechanism, to grow even more mortified.

“ _Did_ he?”

Chris rolls his eyes, wholly unsurprised. He waves a dismissive hand at his boss, who grimaces despite himself and yet, immediately returns to his office—presumably to make said phone call, or so Christophe hopes. He really, really doesn’t want to be in charge of an entire private jet worth of dried-out bonsai, be it in a few weeks or otherwise.

 

As such, much to Viktor’s surprise, Toshiya Katsuki was, apparently, late _dedushka_ ’s most beloved friend. The first words given to him after introducing himself over the phone were choked-up condolences, and the visit Viktor pays to their workplace a few hours later in the day have more photographic proof than he thought would ever exist. The backgrounds of their meetings vary from places he recognizes as Russia to what he can only assume to be the gardener’s hometown, all the way back to Japan.

Viktor is gracious enough to feel a little embarrassed for not knowing of this man prior to this occasion, despite how in deep regards his grandfather must’ve held him until the end.

“I assume you’re here to speak about the bonsai?” Viktor’s expression lights up, and he feels delighted to see it as a mutual sentiment. “Yes, well, I’m afraid I do not have the knowledge to be an adequate choice—but my son, who actually begun training in the profession during his childhood years under Volodya himself, might be just the right person for you.”

Viktor beams, elated, taking Mr. Katsuki’s hand between his own and shaking it vigorously. For a moment, he thought he might’ve lost this!

“However,” he rushes to add, tone gone almost quiet, “he might need a little convincing.”

(And _oh_ , aren’t shortcomings horribly _disconcerting_.)

“Whatever do you mean?”

“He’s... Well, my Yuuri decided to search for happiness somewhere else, you see. He no longer accepts any job as a Bonsai Curator—nor as a gardener, for that matter.”

“What if I call it a personal request?”

Now, see, Viktor _knows_ this is cheating; he knows it’s wrong to appeal to any fond memories Mr. Katsuki’s son might keep with himself after so many years of arduous study, and especially, knows he shouldn’t be throwing someone else’s dream under the bus in favor of his own (admittedly sudden, likely fleeting) passion. But he aches for beautiful things—for something, _anything_ —and the feeling of being stagnant is positively overwhelming.

In his eyes, the bright and brilliant colors no longer shine or blend, majestic dancers fall and wither like dying blossoms underneath his eyelids, once sweet melodies echo into a hollow absence of its heart, sculpted masterpieces cease to make sense in a matter of seconds. He does his best not to let it show, but nowadays Viktor does leaps of faith more often than not, praying the day that follows to be more bearable than the one he shuts behind his entrance door every night. Bonsai had been astounding, enigmatic and fascinating, as well as a merciful breath of fresh air.

(It was also something given to him by a family member, which was definitely a first ever since the son of the Plisetsky household bestowed him a crown made out of artificial flowers, all the way back to his second birthday, which had been at least fifteen years ago.

The event was both incredibly touching and very, very sad. For obvious reasons. And yet he wishes to keep it all, as closely as possible.)

 _I have a garden_ , Viktor reasons with himself. Back at the mansion. He has a lifeless and spacious garden that could use some loving hands and compelling confabulations.

He needs this.

“Please,” he attempts.

(It’s likely not the same ‘personal request’ his company has in mind, but it will have to make do.)

Mr. Katsuki smiles sadly at him, draws the nearby telephone from its landline at the table they’re sitting at, and starts pressing what look to be well-practised numbers. Viktor is anxiously tapping at the armrest of his chair as he hears the phone ring endlessly, and even though the Russian swears an entire eternity has passed since the man had pressed call, it couldn’t have been more than a single minute. When the line goes through and a small voice springs from the other side, Viktor is surprised to see Toshiya Katsuki speaking in a language he doesn’t understand.

It’s very soft, befitting of his unchanging tone and apparent accent, and it sparks another wave of curiosity within him. He makes a mental note to ask for the younger Katsuki to spare him a few words in the language—in case he is an agreeable person at all, that is.

The older man laughs good-naturedly, says what seems to be his goodbyes, and ends the call.

Viktor is vibrating with jitters.

“I’ll pass you his contact information,” he begins, leaving his seat at the table unhurriedly. “And I’ll have you know, his initial response seemed overall positive.”

“Really?!” Viktor gasps, elated, ignoring the bit of words that could be considered excellent mixed signals material. “Splendid! _Oh_ , you have my gratitude, Mr. Katsuki. I can’t wait to speak to him!"

He chuckles, then, patting him on the shoulder like he would a good friend. Viktor feels his chest be swelled with a homely warmth, and preserves his silence in order to postpone their farewells. After meeting this man of swift kindness and amiable frame, he finally understands his grandfather’s jovial insistence and enormous effort to sustain a friendship like this, even from an entire world away.

By the time he returns home a few hours later, Makkachin already glued to his side, Viktor faces yet another blow to his expectations.

Yuuri Katsuki, his intended gardener and Bonsai Curator, _won’t pick up goddamn the phone_.

Viktor tries to attribute it to nighttime classes, evenings of self-study or maybe even a part-time job, but the rational part of him seems to be in vacation somewhere very far away as he fidgets at _least_ another half an hour before deciding to message him, instead.

 

 **To:** _Yuuri Katsuki_

Hello! This is Viktor Nikiforov, CEO at Stammi Vicino Fine Arts Studio. I spoke to your father earlier about a job as a Bonsai Curator, yet I don’t seem to be able to reach you through the phone. Are you still available?

 

 **From:** _Yuuri Katsuki_

oh

sorry. didn't know that was you

 

Viktor almost frowns, then wastes double the energy to smooth out his forehead again. He reckons any possible misunderstanding has been cleared and tries calling again, but to no avail.

 

 **From:** _Yuuri Katsuki_

sorry. no phone calls

i know you must be desperate to find help, considering how many bonsai mr. vladimir already had back when i was his student. but i’m currently pursuing a career in photography, and between my classes and two jobs, it’s gonna be impossible to find time for you

 

“Is this what you call ‘overall positive’?!” he whines, biting his bottom lip as his mind is submerged in deep thought.

Technically, he _could_ find someone else to do the job; there’s very little in the world that is not available for someone like him, and yet, something about this entire situation just screams at Viktor to keep on trying. And so he does.

Mr. Katsuki must’ve perceived his radio silence as admonishment, for a follow-up message with a single “sorry” doesn’t take long to pile up with the others.

He _has_ to think of something! Something like—

“Oh.”

 

 **To:** _Yuuri Katsuki_

I’ll pay you three times all your earnings combined. Plus additional benefits.

 

One hour later, as Viktor makes dinner for himself, sullen and absent, he gets a message that single-handedly sends him into a state of crushing delight.

 

 **From:** _Yuuri Katsuki_

when do i start?

 

According to _dedushka_ ’s friend, it’s not that his son is a gold-digger, or anything.

It’s more like he really, really needs the equipment to start working on his portfolio, and there’s little else he can do with a minimum wage besides paying off his own bills that don’t even go beyond the essentials; he also won’t accept help from his family, which is something that Toshiya strangely admits over the phone with both pride and mild exasperation. A quick research on top-notch photographic appliances have Viktor immediately discarding his first impression of the man; his own bank account being bottomless or not, he’s acutely aware of most people’s financial limits, being an Investor and all that jazz.

They agreed on having a brief encounter before Mr. Katsuki’s first day on the job on the following Monday, which should blessedly coincide with the arrival of the cargo. It’s a small café near Viktor’s office, but the fairly distasteful entryway immediately tells him the reason why he’s never been here before, as the color scheme looks out of place just enough to make him cringe his gaze away, a dirty beige making way to a misplaced black and an unflattering brown—and although he knows very little of decor itself, Viktor could fight people any day on color combinations. The whole parlor is vaguely insulting, to be honest.

After he orders a large latte with caramel, extra cream and two sugars, pretty please, Viktor is relieved to discover that at least their products are of decent quality, and instantaneously forgives all customers that come and go. He’s at his third sip, eyes closed in mild bliss, when a voice shakes him off his daze.

“Mr. Nikiforov?”

His first thought upon looking up is of how this man hardly resembles his father at all, followed by a strange sensation of vague derangement, similar to when a painting hangs crookedly on a wall. Viktor has the immediate itch to reach out and fix it, but he has yet to discover how.

Meaning, Yuuri Katsuki is a lot more unassuming than he imagined at first. For someone who blatantly refuses to share a mere phone call with him, he looks largely subdued. His clothing is spotless and overall elegantly simplistic, but he seems to hide himself behind the generous frame of his glasses, keeping his head down as his voice feels even quieter than Toshiya’s. Suddenly, it's almost like Viktor is entirely out of place, himself.

“That would be me,” he provides nonetheless. “Mr. Katsuki, right?”

The man curls in on himself, dismissing it with a wave of his head as he hesitantly pulls a chair out, sitting a little farther from the table than what would be considered courteous.

“Just Yuuri, please.”

“Well,” Viktor tries for a smile, not knowing what to make of this just yet. “Then you may call me Viktor.”

If his company has any qualms about this new development, he doesn’t bother saying anything. A few seconds of silence stretch amid them, and once Viktor finally shakes off the awkwardness sitting at the table in-between their stiff selves, one of the employees that had been tending the drinks approaches their party with a spring to his step, placing a moderately-sized mug of steaming, ink-black liquid in front of the Japanese man.

“Here you go, Yuuri!” the barista offers excitedly, letting a gasp fall from his mouth as he notices he’s in Viktor’s company. “Oh, it’s Mr. Caramel With Extra Cream and Sugar! How do you do?”

“P-Phichit!” Yuuri cries, flushed to the tips of his ears.

The man in question barks another good-humored laughter, but no-one at the establishment spares them a second glance. Which means it must be common occurrence.

(He’s starting to really like this place.)

“Call for me if you guys need anything! And please don’t bite his head off, will you.”

It’s not apparent on to whom the last accusatory remark was directed to, but before any of them can request for a clarification, the man already has his back to them, taking long strides until he reaches the front counter. Viktor wonders if all of them refer to the customers as the name of their orders. Yuuri clears his throat.

“Sorry about, um, all of that.”

“Are you a regular in here?” he asks, the interest in him growing by the second.

“Oh, no, I—actually worked here until you, well. Sent me a message?”

Viktor almost jokes about the 26 calls he also made, prior to the texts, but something tells him the attempt at creating a banter won’t be well-received; at least not now. But he can’t help but to send Yuuri a knowing smile, to which the man responds by simply regaining part of the blush from seconds earlier, splashing color up high on his delicate cheekbones. In a possible pursuit of regaining his composure, Yuuri tries for a long sip of his drink.

“How can you drink plain coffee, by the way?” Viktor quips, reaching for easier topics to discuss whilst genuinely flinching after imagining the bitter taste. “It’s so aggressive to my palate.”

Strangely, that seems to startle a laughter out of Yuuri, who rushes to set the cup back against its saucer before it can spill everywhere.

“‘Aggressive to my palate,’ you—” he mimics, doing his best to hide a grin behind his hand. “You’re having diabetes on a cup, and you think I—”

Viktor is positive that, in his entire life, he’s never seen the color drain from someone’s face as quickly as Yuuri has just managed to. Like a true master of his own art.

And kind of handsome when he smiles, too.

He makes way for an apology; Viktor _knows_ it’s coming. So instead of allowing this moment to go down the drain, the Russian grins back, propping the rim of his ‘diabetes on a cup’ against his lips.

“I mean, you’re not wrong. I _am_ a soft flower, after all.”

Against his better judgement, Yuuri just snorts.

“ _Sure_.”

Things proceed more smoothly after that, although the process is relatively slow. They talk about private matters—or as private as they can possibly get, before Yuuri half-combusts and sinks a little further into his chair—a little on photography, and their future routine with Viktor’s garden. Admittedly, he knows remarkably little about plants, and as Yuuri inquiries him on what he’d like his garden to feature, the only things he can mention besides bonsai are flowers and succulents. And although Viktor thinks it’s a bit pathetic to have come so ill-prepared, his new employee seems to accommodate his vague imagery startlingly well.

On Monday, however, Viktor feels taken aback as ever before.

It’s most definitely Yuuri, he thinks, doing some maneuvering in order to look over his shoulder and at the person who’s just passed him on the street. Viktor had left his house with Makkachin for their morning walk, sky washing away the dimmed colors of dawn; and all had been absolutely fantastic until he ran by the newest addition to his home staff, likely on his way to secure the immediate health of his employer’s bonsais as they’d previously agreed on, which were to arrive at any given minute.

Low-cut tank top, dark sweatpants, headphones, no glasses.

Which kind of explains why he didn’t recognize Viktor, really. Still, it had been the sight itself to stir something deep inside of him—much like how their conversation during the previous day begun to unfold the awkwardness between them, prying gently against all the veiled tension until it melted away, slowly but surely.

He thinks back on the Yuuri he’d met on Sunday afternoon; eyes cast downwards, doing his best to disappear underneath the very thing that was supposed to show him the world around his figure. And yet—

And _yet_.

He rushedly dismisses the train of thought as Makkachin speeds up, as if inviting her owner for a more vigorous run. Viktor promptly accepts, and decides to focus on all the time he’ll have with his garden, instead.

Yuuri’s nowhere to be seen by the time he comes back, but the housekeeper tells him the Japanese man had left just in time for his morning classes, and should be back to treat the bonsai more thoroughly during the evening. Viktor enters his now slightly less barren garden, delighted to see all of _dedushka_ ’s collection already beautifully arranged. They look vaguely different from most of the pictures on the internet, but he reckons they’re now in excellent care—and will not take long to become full of life again.

He has so many questions! What are their types, will they grow better if they have company, do they feel threatened by dogs, are they welcoming to soulful conversations about lost hearts and burning dreams. Viktor must find the opportunity to ask Yuuri of all the wonders he knows of, but for now, he settles for another day at work. And, well, the fact he tries his best not to think about it too much is a given; about the garden, the bonsai, and Yuuri.

Whenever his thoughts surpass juvenile curiosity, Viktor catches himself wishing to be borderline intrusive. The sensation of facing something inharmonious doesn’t fade, and there’s definitely a tug about his heart he still cannot give a name to.

(Almost like fondness, but not quite—he is fond of Anna, the housekeeper, as he is of the rest of his home staff and other employees back at the Studio. He’s fond of breakfast at any time of day, of mornings, of the idea of birds and the color pink.

 _This_ , however. This isn’t fondness.

But it’s not much of anything else, either. And Viktor is not certain as to what he wants it to be just yet.)

After work, he’s graced with another type of Yuuri—almost an in-between, a mixture of façades and nuances he can’t help but to feel captivated by. He has his hair slicked back, now, displaying a beautiful forehead that almost springs a tinge of envy in Viktor’s heart. Almost. His clothing is less daring than this morning’s athletic choice, although it doesn’t feel quite as formal like during their encounter at the café.

He’s almost like a chameleon, Viktor finds. Blending with the environment as his take on survival, but without ever changing his heart.

A chameleon that, for some reason, insists on avoiding him like he’s the plague.

“I thought we were okay!” Viktor complains against his poodle’s soft fur, voice attaining a hint of disbelief. “He said I was going to get diabetes, Makka. You don’t say that to just anyone, do you?”

His dog can only offer an exasperated huff in response, to which he readily agrees.

“What could make him open up, my love?” he coos at her. Makkachin blinks once, twice, and Viktor beams at her grandeur. “Oh, Makka, that’s right! I could—”

“Um, Viktor?”

… Great.

Viktor turns to him with a tight smile, pulling his dog closer as if trying to hide the fact they’d been talking about him.

“Yes, Yuuri?”

“I, um,” he begins, blush softly gracing his features before he manages to shake it off, entering work-mode awfully quickly. Viktor can relate. “I finished the list of the extra supplies you’ll need; also added a few seeds and sprouts you might want to buy to make the whole thing... you know, _bigger_ , all things considered.”

He actually frowns, this time, and _damn_ it—there goes his entire fortune on beauty products and anti-ageing cream. Yuuri looks at him sheepishly.

“I mean, your house is huge, and beautiful,” and then shrugs, pushing a surprisingly small shopping list into his hands. “I assumed you wouldn’t go for anything less than absolutely grand.”

Oh.

It’s not something that happens often unless someone manages to forcibly squeeze the occasional laughter out of him, but Viktor catches himself smiling fully and honestly, without feeling like a chore to appear pleasing to the eye or to look open enough in order to keep their conversation going. This is Yuuri—skittish, slippery, adorable Yuuri—handing him the opportunity to open up through the medium of plants and blossoms. It does funny things to his heart, and he thinks that even as spending only the littlest time with him, he’s already being affected to remarkable levels.

(Viktor can already smell the freshness of the seedlings and cuttings, warm tea with a view to a slice of paradise, petrichor on a rainy day.)

He can’t wait!

Instead, he doubles the smile, steps closer to Yuuri and thanks him with embellished words and a warm gaze. With a nod, his company looks on verge of turning on his heel and going back to work, but _oh_ , that won’t do.

“May I join you?”

(Needless to say, he doesn’t do ‘subtle.’)

“Of—of course! Of _course_ , you may.”

If Viktor can be so bold as to allow his vanity show with no bounds or filters, he is not that ignorant of his flattering figure; but somehow, the reluctance that seeps out of Yuuri seems less like coming from mere attraction and more of something still very much unknown, which renders him to an extensively curious and unusually prodding nature.

With that being said, he’s delighted to see that, even on such a short notice, Yuuri had been able to turn his previously nearly-empty garden in a true spectacle that looks almost centuries old—well-founded and _grand_ , as he’s mentioned before. There’s a few other plants that weren’t there this morning, but the gardener simply says they are his own. “I brought them from home,” he provides, and that’s all there is to it. Makkachin begins scratching the floor around one of the tall vases, habits deeply rooted within her amiable nature, tongue lolling out of her mouth with a huff of happiness; they have his angel’s approval, too!

Yuuri glances at her fondly, crouching down to pet the soft curls of her fur. Makka immediately perks up, turning to prod a wet nose against the man’s cheek. Yuuri laughs.

(And if Viktor feels something viciously jabbing at this chest, he definitely doesn’t say anything.)

He asks the housekeeper for some tea, chuckling when his company inquiries if he’ll be ordering another ‘diabetes’—still, Yuuri accepts a cup of Sencha, whereas Viktor settles for English Breakfast with an ungodly amount of sugar. His gardener can only roll his eyes at him, but not without affection. He hides a grin behind his teacup, feeling oddly secretive as he quietly observes the man in front of him. With the bonsai as the background, Yuuri looks just like a painting; something befitting of one of the Old Masters, profoundly emotional and astoundingly beautiful in its own way.

And it seems like Viktor’s been put on autopilot, because he begins talking—about a family that doesn’t bother reaching for him, vague portrayals of old and washed-out yearnings, of mellow dogs, volatile fixations and refined plants. He blames it all on the relaxing atmosphere created by slim and twisted bonsai trunks, warm drinks, and good company. Yuuri compromises, sharing soundlessly of his own, reminiscing about his time with the Russian man’s grandfather, and at last appoints himself as Viktor’s professor on the technical aspects of bonsai. It’s already dark by the time they’ve been through all basic nomenclature, and although Yuuri seems pretty much ready to go home, Viktor feels slightly unsettled.

“Do you enjoy photography, Yuuri?”

He looks around with a big frown, as if searching for hidden cameras or trying to unveil a possible poorly-timed joke.

“Yes,” it sounds more like a question than an affirmative, but Viktor has already seen enough of him to know of his nature that constantly swims in uncertainty.

Their goodbyes are brief, and even as his home staff turns in for the night and the house darkens with the weight of his solitude, Viktor feels like the Japanese man hasn’t left him at all.

 

On the next day, by the time Yuuri arrives during the evening, everything on the list he’d previously provided is already carefully stacked on wooden shelves in an outdoors vacant area next to the garden. As well as a huge assemblage of photography equipment, placed gingerly in a wide, white, emptied out room downstairs.

“Please tell me you didn’t do this,” he starts, sighing heavily as he pinches the bridge of his nose for what might as well the umpteenth time. He looks exhausted. “That’s the reason I’m _working_ , Viktor. I can’t possibly accept—”

“Well, then you can just borrow them.”

A beat.

“Uh.”

“You speaking so highly of photography made me a little interested, as well,” Viktor offers, with a little of a lie, as nonchalantly as possible. “But since you’re already here, I suppose you can use them in my stead!”

Yuuri licks his lips, considering the situation at hand; Viktor pretends not to follow the motion with his eyes.

“Is this you trying to make me feel better about accepting the equipment?”

“Maybe. Is it working?”

The man snorts, then laughs helplessly; a sound that resonates deep within his being. He throws himself next to Viktor on the wide couch, still not making eye contact.

“You’re _impossible_.”

Viktor grins. “I’ve been told.”

Something stirs in between them, huge and loud and equally uncomfortable as their time back at the café, yet the sentiment behind it paints itself with entirely different colors. Viktor refuses to move, but his mouth still works.

“But of course, it’s not charity. I didn’t become an Investor by giving things away for free; my intention is to commission you.”

Yuuri seems taken aback with the proposition; the same hesitancy Viktor sees behind the eyes of young apprentices throwing themselves headfirst in the world of the Fine Arts: raw, insecure, and full of potential—of _excitement_.

“Like a photoshoot?” he quips. When Viktor nods, he catches his Adam’s apple bobbing nervously. “Of you?”

It’s like the air is suddenly knocked out of him, his mind going to darker, filthier places than what would be ideal.

“The—the _garden._  I want pictures of the garden. Of _dedushka_ ’s collection.” Viktor shifts on the couch, feeling himself blush slightly as a strange warmth spreads at the base of his spine. “And Makkachin.”

Yuuri blinks at him, eyes taken by an emotion he somehow recognizes in himself.

“With one— _two_ , two conditions.”

Viktor pushes away the urge to squirm. Swallowing back the lump in his throat, he breathes in deeply. “Do tell.”

“One: I want you to be in some of the pictures, as well,” and as Viktor opens his mouth to brush off the idea, Yuuri raises a shaky hand, as if asking for a chance to give an explanation. “Two: they have to be taken casually. Nothing like… preparing a whole set, hiring an entire crew, or anything. Just. Just you two.”

 _This isn’t fair_ , he thinks, almost like a child. He doesn’t know why this man had suddenly begun to hold such astounding power over him, despite knowing each other for not even an entire week. And time is not the only source of puzzlement, as their obvious differences make themselves even more apparent once well thought over. Compared to the other man, on the surface, Yuuri is too tamed, too soft-spoken, and isn’t conventionally handsome at first glance.

But it doesn’t take that long to find that he’s so, _so_ much more than what meets the eye.

(Yuuri spoke of pictures like someone would a dream, chose muses with renewed confidence and let the fire in his eyes burn down the walls around him into a pile of rubble. Viktor had trained during his whole life in means to achieve proficiency on perceiving true beauty, thus held a natural pride regarding his feats and abilities—and to him, Yuuri is his most magnificent discovery, a masterpiece that doesn’t need tending to in order to grow into something even more radiant.)

Over the years, many people have told Viktor he’d most certainly been carved out of marble; utterly sublime, yes, but nonetheless cold and devoid of life, or love. He was never able to figure out whether their words referred to his mechanical ways and methods about his profession, or because his work and privilege ended up allowing little else to be a part of his routine. Probably both.

But not Yuuri—the one who may occasionally cower under his presence for no apparent reason, but the very same who wastes no time before throwing his faults back at his face; a wonderful contradiction, permanently inconclusive.

Regardless of what these feelings may be or where such an inclination might lead, being in his company is refreshing and a privilege, and Viktor has no intention of letting go.

“ _Okay_ ,” he finally agrees, slightly breathless.

Yuuri beams, half in disbelief, blush kissing his face softly in a beautiful shade of pink, and it’s like a dam breaks.

 _Oh, no_ , Viktor thinks, wearing a fool’s smile.

(He can’t bring himself to regret it.)

Not even an hour later, he hears the shutter of the camera—the first of many, or so he not-so-secretly hopes. He’d been petting Makkachin atop the couch in the veranda next to the garden during his break, but once Yuuri sees himself be caught over the incriminating sound of his equipment, he spares Viktor a delectable boyish smile.

If anything, it’s a little hard to handle. And the evening has yet to fade itself into complete darkness.

(It’s not that he doesn’t perceive his own figure as worthy of being the focus of someone else’s work—rather, his turmoil can be readily tied to the person behind the camera, the _artist_ , more than anything else.)

He feels himself flush slightly in flattered surprise, and does his best to brace himself for all delicious torment that remains to be seen.

Of course, it would likely be a lot easier if Yuuri wasn’t so nice about it—if he didn’t stop to admire whatever would come out in the picture, not in an attempt to stroke his own ego, but to hold Viktor’s charming frame surrounded by growing flowers in an overly appreciative light. His eyes linger, teeth catching at his lower lip, tension building until it becomes real enough to touch.

This goes on for days, then weeks, and soon enough their second month together comes to an end.

At the moment, Viktor feels like he could easily use his garden’s current breathtaking state to define his own ecstatic emotions. Most plants about the area had been carefully nursed into their stunning forms from scratch by Yuuri’s skillful hands and trained eye, making it a mix of sizes and colors so appealing to the view that Viktor felt like crying upon getting a few progress photos. The bonsai were particularly extraordinary, in every sense of the word, especially now that he knew how to intrinsically appreciate their elegance.

Needless to say, the garden speaks what his body cannot fathom to voice.

(He’s in love.)

Curiously, Viktor had found out about his own emotions through the pictures taken by Yuuri along the way. The first had almost been a fortunate accident, catching the Russian by surprise in a small moment of glee; but the subsequent compositions were things slightly more thought through, if not huge opportunities hidden by smaller, unassuming shells that Yuuri happened to stumble by, using his expertise to transform a rough and uncut jewel into something magical. But suddenly the growth of turns and edges, branches and blossoms became a direct parallel to his heartland, bursting into life from what had seemed to be an eternal nothingness.

(In _love_.)

He becomes genuinely interested in photography once he gets his hands on the pictures where he shares the spotlight with Makkachin, bewildered at how exposed and raw—at how _happy_ he looks, especially in the latest samples, as if Yuuri’s influence had transformed him into a whole new kind of being. Viktor realizes he feels lighter, beautiful in a way that eyes can’t see, a great share of his melancholy led astray by obstinate gazes, soft touches and words too big to fit inside his glass-like heart. Besides the notoriously splendid capture of scenery, turning hues of light into a stage for pristine greenery and opulent flora to shine through, the fact a simple camera could grasp his essence in such a striking manner catches him off-guard.

Viktor asks to see more of Yuuri’s work, even the pictures he takes outside the Nikiforov household; he’s brilliant as he is beautiful, compositions waltzing around with colors and landscapes as if making sweet arias on the fly. Through photography, he’s also introduced to a few of Yuuri’s classmates—besides Phichit, whom he already recognizes as the barista from the infamous café near his workplace. Their potential is frankly extraordinary, and Viktor chastises himself for not have been immersed in the world of photography from a long time ago.

His excitement springs anew once he becomes knowledgeable enough to be promoted from bonsai nomenclature connoisseur to ‘official watering boy,’ as Yuuri calls it. Viktor also has extensive monologues with late _dedushka_ ’s prized possessions, and if a particular branch suddenly seems bigger than it did on the day before, he’s stricken by a peculiar sense of triumph.

Yuuri continues on taking pictures, occasionally convinced on showing up in a few, and sometimes forgoes the garden altogether. He captures the soft waves of Viktor’s indoor pool, the seemingly unaware staff performing their chores about a kitchen in clear-cut stone, sun going comatose behind tall trees in detriment of a fine veil of star-peppered dusk.

Naturally, it also gets progressively more difficult to hide his hopeless infatuation. Viktor knows Yuuri should be graduating soon, but what will become of their private sessions when this is all over? Will he quit, since he already has the necessary equipment to move on with his projects? Perhaps he’ll leave the country to pursue his career elsewhere? Viktor can’t be certain, is most definitely terrified to find out, and in the end comes up with a foolproof plan in order to buy them more time—which, mind you, actually makes a little bit of sense.

“You want to make thematic photoshoots?” this beautiful, _beautiful_ man asks, frowning despite himself. “Any particular reason?”

Viktor shrugs, scratching his dog’s favorite spot behind her ear. “I figured it could be a lovely addition to Makkachin’s collection! Besides, I already came up with a few locations; maybe some of the pictures will serve to your portfolio.”

It’s a bait if Viktor has ever thrown any, but Yuuri, blessedly, seems oblivious enough.

“Yeah, okay,” he purses his lips, then, fiddling with the strap of his camera. “What did you have in mind?”

(Dangerous question, that.)

He allows himself an easy smile, sliding on the chair next to Yuuri by the unnecessarily wide coffee table. “Here, I’ll show you the list.”

 

They start with the aquarium exhibit.

Viktor manages to find a Studio to finish a few customized pieces of clothing for Makka by the end of the following day, which explains her small shirt and hat befitting of a sailor’s uniform. The animals are curiously sparse and swim happily around their spacious tanks, seemingly utterly curious regarding Makkachin’s presence among the humans. They all approach the glass that separates them, sniffing away in an attempt to catch bits and pieces of her nature. Viktor feels enchanted by her excitement as she pulls him around with the leash; and with all the closeness and small talk he shares with Yuuri throughout the whole experience, as well as the fairly romantic atmosphere framed by blue hues and deep-sea harmonies, he’s thoroughly besotted.

They go for a pet-friendly spa a few days later, spend the following weekend camping in the middle of nowhere (but never, _ever_ again!), settle for a home-based photoshoot at Viktor’s pool in an attempt to restore energy and repair their soiled dignity, and finally decide on a simple picnic at a park far away from Detroit’s downtown area. And when Yuuri takes multiple lunchboxes out of a large satchel, his interest is immediately piqued.

“Sneaky!” he remarks with a grin, remembering very well how he’d clearly put himself in charge of packing all the food at the time they planned the whole thing. “What did you bring, Mr. Photographer?”

Yuuri _smiles_ —smiles in a way he wasn’t able to in the beginning, lips stretching into a gorgeous and unguarded line that shows only a hint of teeth, eyes crinkling with fondness at the edges; his whole body looks at ease as if in his own element, and Viktor is positive they’d both agree on the assertion to have never foreseen what would become of their relationship. He takes a seat beside Makkachin on the picnic blanket, perfectly comfortable underneath the generous shade cast by the towering trees that surround them. With Viktor sitting this close to him, Yuuri is able to reach out and tap playfully at the top of his head, which by now follows them as a growing habit he’s still trying to figure out.

Ignoring his pout, Yuuri hands him a small bowl secured with a plastic lid, and as Viktor peels off the cap, he’s graced by a dish he’s never seen before—which looks and smells absolutely fantastic, the savory sight making him salivate instantly. The food still seems to be steaming hot, and he catches himself sending Yuuri a knowing, albeit grateful smile.

“Is that why you were in such a hurry to leave the house?”

His company hums sheepishly, biting at his lower lip in a sentiment akin to expectation.

“My mother made it, since I said I’d be joining you for lunch,” he provides, fetching a small set of flatware from the satchel and handing Viktor a wooden fork. “This was my favorite thing to eat back in Japan—and here as well, I guess. It’s called _katsudon_.”

The effort feels oddly touching, for some reason. Viktor swallows thickly, accepting the fork with a look nearing childlike wonder.

“Katsudon?”

“A pork cutlet bowl,” Yuuri readily clarifies.

Viktor takes a piece to his mouth, and although saying the flavor nearly brought him to tears may seem like an exaggeration at first, the cocktail of relish that overcomes his taste buds makes it effortlessly believable. His free hand to his lips, eyes growing wide as saucers, because—

“It’s _delicious_!”

And then, before he’s able to say anything else, Viktor hears a shuttering sound.

Oh.

_‘Did he—’_

Looking up, his suspicions are immediately confirmed. Yuuri has backed off a little, propping himself with the free arm behind his back as he leans away from him, camera in hand, probably in order to find the perfect angle for this. Viktor flushes to the roots of his hair, hands going a little shaky at being caught sporting such a chummy, unguarded demeanor. There’s a moment of silence that settles, enlarges, and cools in their midst, making so that once Yuuri finally emerges from behind the lenses, they’re both too embarrassed to share anything even remotely coherent. Makkachin sneezes.

“Sorry, it’s just,” he begins, voice going raspy at the edges. He shifts on his knees as he sets the equipment down, miraculously keeping his ebony eyes locked on bright, cerulean ones, “you—looked so _beautiful_. A-as you do! but, _ah_ , I mean… nevermind.”

Viktor wants to scream.

Suddenly, the sensation of having swallowed a wildfire is too much for him, burning in his chest and at the back of his throat. The shadow of interest is exhilarating and thin, cutting right through him like the leading pinprick of a knife. And he almost throws the compliment back at Yuuri, either solely out of honesty or perhaps to deviate the attention from his crumbling serenity; but surprisingly, he finds that he _needs_ this, and ends up only thanking his company instead—that’s to say, how addicting can it be, to have the object of his affections calling him _beautiful_? Because he’s most willing to find that out for himself.

Now, see, he isn’t a fool, despite how the vast majority of people that come to know him are led to believe. He knows Yuuri doesn’t want him, and knows that the man certainly possesses an entire life that does not include a single ounce of _him_ , as hurtful as it is to imagine. But Viktor was never known for his impressive skills on letting things go, much less for his awe-inspiring impulse control, so virtually, there’s very little he can do other than sulk in the most discreet manner he knows how.

However, his plans on how to keep Yuuri’s attention for as long as humanly possible are unfortunately put on hold for nearly an entire week. Whilst Viktor never had any troubles on balancing work with his newfound personal affairs, the fact Stammi Vicino’s sister location simply loses their Head Director overnight is enough a headache to turn everything into a vaguely dignified mess—and having their headquarters all the way back in France as the bottom line definitely doesn’t help. Logically, Viktor could simply appoint someone else to do the job, and the commotion would likely die down with a simple video conference; but the question of _who_ would be up to the task remains another issue entirely.

And well, yeah, maybe he’s somewhat lying to himself, because even though the choice is painfully obvious to him, it doesn’t make the distress that’ll likely come along with it particularly easy to overlook.

But _still_ , Christophe has always wanted to go back to France.

He also knows his friend has sustained a long-distance relationship for _years_ , and is more qualified for the job than anyone else they’ll likely spend the entirety of the following month relentlessly interviewing. Though if he gives said promotion a green light, that means Viktor will not only be handing out a top-notch personal assistant, but most importantly, he’ll be losing his best friend to an entire ocean worth of distance.

(Curiously, in order to solve the obnoxious crossroads that sit with him for a scarce couple of days, yet more than enough to give him emotional whiplash and a few stress wrinkles he definitely wants to forget, Viktor asks himself: _what would Yuuri do?_

And much to his dismay, even before finishing such a singular self-inquiry, he already knows the answer.)

Chris is absolutely ecstatic.

And also daring enough as to throw a farewell party at _Viktor’s_ house, of all things. Half of their building ends up being invited and even a few of Yuuri’s friends from college show up at some point in the evening, as much as he tries to hide himself underneath his duties as a gardener all the while—and if the amount of booze can be of any indication, Viktor will have to prepare himself to offer his home staff a well-deserved pay raise.

Despite all odds, Viktor feels immensely satisfied with his decision, and congratulates his friend on multiple occasions throughout the evening. Chris doesn’t hide his gratitude, actually starts crying at some point, and if Viktor hugs him for longer than necessary he’ll solemnly swear it is only to shelter his friend’s tears from the public eye, but _definitely_ not his own. The interns end up drinking enough to pass out in the living room, and all present photographers barely have half a mind to show off their work until the time to weep about student loans finally arrives like clockwork.

Yuuri, for reasons unknown, had kept himself as far as possible from all alcoholic beverages; he’s as reserved as ever, but on occasion, Viktor can see him chatting away with Christophe at the far end of the room. At some point he leaves Stammi Vicino’s newest Director with a couple of thick and black folders of his own—the pictures he’d taken so far, presumably. And as someone who’d been kept in the dark for _months,_ Viktor can’t help but let curiosity get the best of him.

Chris, on the other hand, is thoroughly captivated, as well as relieved—for Viktor will not be subjected to isolation, even after he’s gone. Not only his best friend’s secret love is an absolute sweetheart (and wholly illiterate on the art of subtlety, much like Viktor himself, which he’d considered to be an impossible feat up until this point), but he’s also as talented as a grand, seasoned personality in the world of the Arts. Whilst not very accustomed with photography of any kind, Chris can still appreciate all careful details scattered about the man’s assembly of show-stopping jewels, and simply cannot wait to see them submitted to refined exhibitions all over the world. The folder is filled with intricate urban landscapes, skies of magnificent hues, and faceless bodies dominated by a silent brand of passion.

The second book, curiously, has nothing but pictures of Makkachin and Viktor’s collection of bonsai, some of them featuring occasional photobooth-worthy moments with the Russian as well as Yuuri himself, the latter visibly very reluctant to be a part of it. At each page he turns, another half an inch is added to Chris’ smile; the overall experience seems to have been ludicrously amazing, and undoubtedly a crushingly positive influence on Viktor.

But it’s the third folder that gets to him the most, and if the contents are anything to go by, summed up with Yuuri’s usually exceedingly soft-spoken and taciturn demeanor, he can only assume the man had left the last book at the table by an unfathomably grotesque mistake.

Because it’s _all Viktor_.

They’re all incredibly hallowed, astounding, carefully captured as if treasuring a secret and ineffable moment, exuding a sense of devotion that nearly knocks the air out of him. In the park, the aquarium, the woods, about the house, in crafts markets, petting his dog, kissing flowers and walking down nameless streets. For nine out of ten pictures, Viktor seems wholly unaware he’s being turned into the ethereal muse of a delicate and dazzling spectacle.

There are a few hundreds of entries at the very least, but Christophe is so overwhelmed by shock and joy alike that it becomes progressively harder to pay attention to any of it.

He is, however, crudely shaken off of his stupor by the man of the hour—and at the worst possible time, even.

“Hey, Chris!” Viktor calls, resting a hand up on his shoulder as he peers over him in order to take a peek. “Is that—”

_‘Oh, no.’_

In an instant, he’s frozen, eyes open as wide as they come in a possible attempt to understand that lays before him; if Chris first assumed that Viktor didn’t know about the pictures, his friend’s awe turns out to be pretty conclusive, and he’s now confident he’d never even heard of any of this before. Viktor’s face goes from a shock-driven haggard to a full-blown blush at breakneck speed, breath hitching painfully like breaking waves, and for a moment Chris thinks he’s going to cry.

“Viktor—”

“Ah, there you are! I was looking for you,” Yuuri runs over, his countenance giving away only the buzz of briskness and adoration, lips already curling around his next words before he realises the situation at hand, stopping dead in his tracks. And like the ice that melts away to leave nothing behind, his face falls, astonishment biting harshly into his skin. “I-Is _that_ —”

And then there’s a scream. The sound of something shattering against the ground.

When they turn to look at the source of the sound in a knee-jerk reaction, Mr. Popovich, the Chief of the Marketing Department, is laid down on a puddle of wine and tears, broken glass miraculously shattered around his figure in a way that’s impossible for him to have gotten hurt. He’s sobbing and whining about _Anya_ , apparently, but seems otherwise in one piece. Chris looks back at the pair, then from Viktor to Yuuri, spares them an apologetic nod and finally strides towards the newfound mess in the living room.

As for the two that are left, it’s a whole other story.

Viktor purses his lips, approaching the thick book that still lies open at the table; turns a few pages for a reality check, and manages to blush even further. His heart is beating so fast it actually hurts, and when Yuuri steps closer to curl an hesitant hand around his elbow, it’s as if the ground is immediately removed from underneath his feet.

“V-Viktor, I—”

“Come with me, please.”

It’s like he’s blind; the whole world is gone, and the only path in front of him is the one that leads to a closed area upstairs that opens to a corridor with all the bedrooms—and Viktor doesn’t mean anything by it, not really. But this area is safe, is _familiar_ and reserved.

( _I just need a moment alone with him_ , he tells himself.)

This. This _man._ He’d been such a demurred, wonderful creature from day one, and yet he seems to have shown up for the sole purpose of turning Viktor’s life into an ambrosial disarray; a tempting labyrinth of sophisticated turns and extraordinary essence; a sensory journey firmly tied to his radiant and lighthearted soul. Yuuri had secretly captured his figure an untold number of times, his devotion so great it made Viktor tremble and ache with the power of such a gesture—if anything, it flings his already incandescent emotions further into the fire. And it burns, and burns, and _burns._

Viktor doesn’t know what to do.

“Did you mean it?” he asks with only a shard of his voice, sounding winded and affected as never before.

There’s no need to voice the meaning behind his words because he _knows_ ; and even if he didn’t, Viktor reckons his reaction would be as good indicator as any. Yuuri fiddles with his own hands, his hair, looking at just about anywhere except at him and he can’t take it. _Won’t_ take it.

“Viktor, listen, I’m really, really sorry I did that. I—”

“ _Please_. Just... tell me?” he pleads, craving a lesser distance but ultimately refusing to enter Yuuri’s personal space, especially being as rattled as he is, stomach churning in anticipation. “Did you mean it?”

Viktor watches him swallow back, hesitant, pursing his lips into a thin line as he averts his eyes once again.

“Yes,” Yuuri declares, voice surprisingly firm for the way he vigorously cowers before him, arms wrapping around himself in a defense mechanism Viktor knows all too well. “I’m so—”

He finally takes a step ahead, then.

(Viktor won’t allow a misunderstanding. Not now. Of all the terrible things Yuuri could possibly assume about him—of his vanity and recklessness, of the way he tends to forget things like they mean absolutely nothing to him, and perhaps of how he might be a bit of a scatterbrained bastard every now and then—this is the single matter he adamantly refuses to let slide.)

Their understanding comes in the form of warm gazes and silent promises, as it always does. He rests his forehead against Yuuri’s, both still taken by sheer awe and disbelief. His eyes go wide, his blush deepens, and he looks positively _dazzling_.

“ _Oh_.”

At that, he’s only capable to offer a weak, flustered smile.

Viktor cups his face with a loving hand and sets a thumb at the corner of his lips, sporting an expression filled with so much wonder and spirited desire it almost looks like he truly believes the supple fresh would’ve killed him on the spot, otherwise. Yuuri allows a hand to go up, shakily pressing against Viktor’s chest in such a soft contact it barely feels like it’s there.

(His touch is _devastating_.)

“ _Viktor_.”

Viktor’s breath hitches as Yuuri’s palm searches for his heartbeat, ventures up his neck, and scratches softly at his nape. It’s been impossibly long since he’s been intimate with someone, and even then, it had never been quite like this—visceral and absolute, to the point he willingly submits his entire being to the sensations brought to life through the smallest of touches.

So when Yuuri tugs gently at his hair in a soundless plea for him to come down from the stars above, he eagerly accepts the invitation.

Their kiss is only a shadow of a touch at first, and Viktor can actually feel Yuuri’s uncertainty start seeping through his pores, bracing itself around his frame; he changes the angle, using a hand to bring his chin higher and catch the smaller man’s lower lip between his own, nibbling on what it downright feels like a delicacy. Yuuri sighs happily against his mouth, wrapping his arms around Viktor’s neck, and _oh_.

“You’re too much,” he whispers against his skin, close enough that their lips still touch.

Yuuri chuckles softly, skittishly, blush refusing to die down despite himself. “Am I, now?”

He chases Viktor’s mouth with his own, heart swelling with yearning and reverence as he presses insistently against him, brushing his tongue up against the plush of his lips in a surge of boldness. Viktor opens his mouth, light caresses growing into messy swipes of their tongues and faint whimpers in the darkness as he slides his hand up Yuuri’s shirt, enraptured by the way the touch sets his skin ablaze and leaves goosebumps in its wake.

Viktor starts tracing the toned muscles underneath, all firm touches and meaningful temptations, undoubtedly appreciative of his luscious physique and _God,_  imagining his bare skin is a wickedly easy thing to do, moving with an undeniable urgency, aching for _release_ —

He squirms, helpless and wanton as his thigh brushes up against Yuuri’s crotch, only to find him already half-hard. When he doesn’t shy away from the touch, Viktor swallows a silent groan, hand sliding down between them to tentatively palm Yuuri through his trousers.

“Oh, _yes!_ ”

Yuuri props himself against the wall, bringing him impossibly closer. They make out for what feels like hours on end, sheer need pooling into their lower bellies as Yuuri latches onto his hair, the kisses becoming downright desperate and rough enough to bruise. Viktor replaces his hand by slipping a leg between Yuuri’s own, pressing flush against his front; Viktor’s hands slide dangerously close to the curve of his ass, doing his best to restrain himself at the way this beautiful creature wriggles his hips against him.

“F-fuck,” Yuuri stammers helplessly. Viktor’s mouth makes a warm and wet trail down a patch of his exposed throat, sucking harshly at his pulse. “ _Fuck_.”

Viktor bucks into him, doing his best to muffle his own whimpers against Yuuri’s skin; but then a pair of hands are back at the silver strands of his hair, tugging him away from his neck. Yuuri uses the wall behind him as leverage and rolls his hips, looking up from underneath his impossibly dark eyelashes in something akin to _hunger_.

“You,” Viktor groans, grabbing handfuls of his ass and hoisting Yuuri into the air, heart rate going perfectly crazy once a pair of powerful legs come to easily wrap themselves around him. “You’re _really_ enjoying making this hard, aren’t you?”

Yuuri’s eyes darken, voice a low and breathless hum as he replies, “Maybe.”

His mouth becomes dry at the display of sudden assertiveness, and as much as this is happening much too fast, there’s a part of Viktor that screams that it _fits_. The way they move _with_ one another makes it obvious they’ve been at it for months by now: undressing each other through heated looks underneath a veiled apprehension, fantasizing how it would feel to drag their lips across stark flesh until the other would wither in soft pleas, shameless and debauched. The way Yuuri’s skin perks up to his touch makes his heartland overflow and his body sing, and he’ll regret it for the rest of his life if he lets him go now.

The grip he has on Yuuri’s rear becomes more insistent; Viktor pushes him further up against the wall and thrusts his hips into him in tauntingly slow motions, feeling them both approaching the brink of snapping by the minute. The Japanese man gasps, shivering, tossing his head back.

“Yuuri,” he calls in midst of his lustful daze, biting softly down his neck. “ _Oh_ , Yuuri, can we—”

“ _Yes_.”

It doesn’t take them long to reach Viktor’s bedroom, their clothes being rushedly torn off their bodies on the way there. Yuuri lies down on the mattress, only in underwear, withering under his predatory gaze. Viktor towers over him, bending down to press a meaningful kiss against a pale collarbone, hands skimming over the muscles on his stomach.

“Tell me when to stop?”

When Yuuri nods frantically at him, he manages to let out a weak and affectionate sound, his entire being on verge of bursting. Viktor leaves him only for a moment to fetch the lube and condoms from the nightstand, returning to find his love taken by the fondest expression he’s ever seen—and he wonders if it somehow mirrors his own. He can still feel Yuuri’s body irradiating desire, ebony eyes hooded with a craving so great it threatens to tear him apart; but the way he looks at him, doting and wistful in a way only the two of them know how, Viktor finds that this is why he feels like the world has been made anew.

(The pictures had shown him, as well. The way Viktor would smile a little more each and every day. The way they’d get physically close for a photo or two yet remain that way for the rest of the evening. The push and pull of their smiles hidden by steaming teacups and soulful conversations.)

Somehow, it feels like this is the first time he’s ever been in love—which, all things considered, might as well be the truth.

As if sensing Viktor’s heartfelt realization, Yuuri extends an arm, smile positively magnetic.

“Come here?”

He rests a knee on the bed, sighing in contentment once his lover’s mouth finds his. Wordlessly, they finally slip out of their underwear to lie down together, Viktor coming to rest between his legs as if it were his second nature. Yuuri stares at his flushed cock, biting down into his lower lip whilst wiggling his hips in a silent request. Viktor starts a trail of kisses down his body, shameless swipes of his tongue against the skin; miraculously manages to uncap the bottle of lube as he nibbles softly on Yuuri’s thighs, pressing a cheek against his crotch.

“Oh, my God,” he whines, fingers caressing his hair—a habit he could totally grow used to.

Viktor coats his fingers with the lube, rubbing them together to warm it up before starting to tease at Yuuri’s entrance with the pad of a finger. His lover squirms helplessly underneath him, and as he takes his time lapping his way up Yuuri’s cock, Viktor finally inserts a single digit slowly up to the second knuckle, surprised to find him already tender on the inside. He looks up, air leaving his lungs for good.

“Yuuri, did you…?”

“D-don’t make fun of me…”

Something animalistic casts a shadow over Viktor’s eyes, and the idea of Yuuri fucking himself in the privacy of his home just before meeting with him—thinking of him, _calling_ for him—isn’t very kind on his sanity. Viktor lets out a strained moan, reflexively bucking his hips against the mattress below him.

Yuuri seems on verge of saying something, maybe apologize for being so brazen and free with his desires; but Viktor takes pity on both of them, finally wrapping his lips around the engorged head of his lover’s cock, quickly working a second finger into him. Yuuri allows himself a wounded sob, doing his best to not thrust his hips upwards, fingernails scraping softly at Viktor’s scalp.

He takes the wet shaft into his mouth as far as he can bear it, bobbing his head with quick motions until precum comes out to coat his tongue, chants of _yes_ and _please_ and _Viktor_ becoming almost way too much to endure.

He scissors his fingers until each movement becomes more fluid than the last, his free hand adding more lube to Yuuri’s entrance so he can fuck him _faster_ , better, and gives his cock a harsh suck. Yuuri all but loses his mind, legs coming to clamp around Viktor’s head—the telltale, sweet torture of wanting him to do _more_ , but also nothing else but this. He prods another finger inside, curling them up as soon as the digits completely disappear past the rim.

“Okay?” Viktor asks breathlessly, lips brushing against the sensitive skin of his cock.

“ _Please_ , just—”

Yuuri cuts himself off with a scream, and after a moment Viktor smiles like the cat who got the cream.

 _Found it_ , he thinks.

Committing the angle to memory, he proceeds to press insistently against Yuuri’s prostate, abusing his sweet spot until the way he squeezes around Viktor’s fingers becomes nearly unbearable—he _needs_ this. They both do.

Viktor releases his lover’s cock with a wet _pop,_  letting it fall off his mouth and slap back against Yuuri’s belly with a lewd sound. He reaches for the condom that’s been forgotten on the bed, only to have Yuuri—beautifully shaken, thoroughly breathless Yuuri—stop him, pleading with eyes lost in a lustful haze.

“Let me?”

(Now, how can he say no to _that_.)

Viktor bites back a whine, and not trusting his voice, offers only a weak nod.

With him kneeling on the bed, Yuuri rolls the condom over his cock with shaky hands, pumping the length a couple of times before coming down to lave at the wetness already gathering at the tip. And Viktor finally understands Yuuri’s sudden fixation, because he wastes no time before letting his fingers sink onto the darkness of his hair, guiding Yuuri to take his cock into the velvet of mouth, bobbing his head a couple of times.

The sensation sends a shock right through him, and when Viktor tries to pull him off in fear of getting overstimulated, Yuuri only sucks him harder, deeper, moaning contentedly around his shaft.

“ _Oh_ , that’s—!” he gasps, squirming at Yuuri’s delicious torment. “If you keep doing this, I can’t promise I’ll last, my love.”

Yuuri’s breath hitches, managing to blush even more. He lets go of Viktor’s length, but not before mouthing the entire shaft down to the sac, nuzzling at his balls.

Licking his lips, Yuuri offers weakly in a raspy, worn-down voice, “Sorry…”

_‘Fuck.’_

Viktor surges forward, not being able to resist making out with him like this—wet lips, blush reaching all the way down to his chest, body shaking in anticipation and raw _want_.

Yuuri changes their positions without breaking the kiss, licking into his mouth as he pushes Viktor against the assemblage of pillows in complete disarray on the bed. With a budding confidence, albeit in absolute contradiction to his ever-present bashful demeanor, Yuuri comes to straddle his legs, and doesn’t hesitate to line himself up with Viktor’s cock.

His hands immediately fly up to Yuuri’s hips in order to brace himself, biting into his lower lip as his lover slowly works himself down Viktor’s shaft.

“Yuuri…”

Breath gone haggard, Yuuri’s hands seek support on Viktor’s stomach, using the leverage to start grinding against him ever so slowly; the Russian doesn’t rush him, doing his best to hold still as his nails make crescent marks on the skin of the smaller man’s thighs.

Eventually, Yuuri picks up the pace, babbling what might as well be nonsense on that charming, alluring tongue of his, turning Victor’s brain into mush with the way he slams back down against his hips, setting up a punishing pace that only seems to grow faster, _harder_ —

“ _God_ , you feel—” he gasps, getting choked up on his own sounds. “Yuuri, _my Yuuri_. You feel so good. You’re doing so _good_.”

Viktor loses control of his voice, starting to thrust upwards to meet his frantic motions, making them strike right where Yuuri wants him, where he _needs_ him. His lover sobs impassionedly, feverish and utterly lost, repeating his name like a mantra as he pushes his chest out, mouth slack and face taken by total bliss.

He won’t last. _He’s not lasting_. Viktor fucks into Yuuri on a frenzy, feeling a scorching heat lick him up from the base of his spine all the way to the back of his throat. It’s the most heavenly torture he’s ever been subjected to, and Yuuri doesn’t look that far off, either.

“You’re so beautiful like this. Y-you—ah!”

He groans at the pressure that builds, and _builds_ , and leaves him feeling fucked out as never before. Yuuri gasps and spreads himself on top of him, cock being stimulated by the friction between their bellies; Viktor licks his lips, manages to add two of his fingers into the stretch of Yuuri’s hole alongside his own shaft, and his lover downright _screams_.

“ _Viktor, I’m_ —”

Yuuri becomes impossibly tighter around his cock, movements growing desperate as he rides it out, orgasm spilling in waves all over his stomach. Still, he doesn’t stop moving his hips, clenching almost painfully around Viktor’s shaft and squeezing the climax out of him, to the point the whole world goes white all around them.

It’s like everything disappears for a while.

Once Viktor comes back from his high, Yuuri is already laying on top of him, boneless and spent. Hiding a smile against his hairline, he busies himself with leaving small, meaningful caresses at his back, stopping only when he feels Yuuri’s breath evening out.

As gently as he can, Viktor slips his softening cock out of him, rolling them over so Yuuri can lie down on the mattress instead. Like his, Viktor has a better view of his face—his consciousness is hanging by a wire and he looks positively exhausted, but his expression is taken by such a tranquil contentment that it sends a fresh wave of affection through Viktor’s body.

He kisses his eyelids, his cheek, the tip of his nose, and finally his lips—softly, only a ghost of a touch, as to not wake him up.

Heaven knows how much he actually loves this man, and he’ll do his best to keep him close.

 

When Viktor wakes up the next morning, the first thing he sees as he opens his eyes is an _angel_.

Yuuri is still sleeping, and he looks almost like a mirage—unperturbed, ethereal, and beautiful enough to hurt. His legs are entangled with Viktor’s own, which immediately brings a smile to his face. Somehow he had found the energy to clean them up and slip their boxers back on before decidedly passing out against Yuuri on the previous night, but their overall state of undress doesn’t really bother him. Viktor slides in closer, propping his chin against a hand in order to observe the dormant figure beside him from a better angle.

His mind is filled with the fine imagery from the night shared between them, as well as peppered moments here and there from all the months they’ve spent together so far. In his absolute and enamored reverie, he loses track of time; and before Viktor realizes his Sleeping Beauty finally stirred awake, blinking the remnants of a good night’s rest away from his eyes.

As soon as their situation dawns on him, Yuuri blushes profusely, but thankfully doesn’t shy away from him—and Viktor is positive he is smiling like a fool, if the vaguely amused expression that follows suit is anything to go by.

“Good morning,” Viktor offers, fingers coming to trace the firm lines of Yuuri’s bare arm.

“… ‘morning.”

His eyes drop to Viktor’s lips, and as with any other grand and unrefusable invitation, he doesn’t hesitate to give way to temptation. Yuuri wraps his arms around him, mouth going pliant against his. As their touches grow heated, they sigh happily against each other, parting away before it becomes impossible for them to leave the bed at all.

Idly, Viktor reckons this feels just like a dream.

“Breakfast?” Yuuri quips.

(And if it is, he’d much rather keep on sleeping, honestly.)

Yuuri doesn’t let him, though—and as it turns out, he’s much more energetic during the mornings than Viktor thought he’d be, talkative, bright and captivating. It makes him wonder how their lives will progress after this, daydreaming of something previously so unfathomable to him such as _routine_ ; he finds that any scenario will be the most perfect thing he’s ever encountered, as long as it’s shared with Yuuri. The awareness of the fact hits him on a ripple of tenderness and passion, and unsurprisingly, Viktor gathers that love is a scary, wholly outstanding emotion.

(Yet, how magnificent it is!)

On their way down to the kitchen, they pass by the thoroughly ruined, but blessedly bare living room. Something clicks inside Viktor’s head, and he leaves his lover’s side in order to access the wonderful thing that made this fantastic development become possible in the first place. Yuuri’s photography books are now closed, with a small note featuring Chris’ handwriting on top of everything.

_‘Behave, you two!’_

With a grin, Viktor opens the first folder.

“Please don’t!” Yuuri cries with a gasp, coming to hug him around his middle from behind.

And _oh_ , he could get used to this.

“But I want to see them!” he counters, tossing his head back so he can lean against Yuuri’s shoulder. Viktor kisses him on the mouth, but doesn’t let go of the books. “How many did you take, anyway?”

He can feel Yuuri swallow back; a nervous reaction. Blinking his eyes open, he assesses his lover’s thoroughly flushed face with devotion.

“I don’t know.”

As he turns the first page, a blank sheet presumably made for small introductory messages, Yuuri nudges his head back up, hiding against his broad back. Taking it as a sign of approval, he begins inspecting the first entries, regarding the pictures with care as his awe grows by the second, heart swelling with warmth and wonder upon facing the demonstration of something that feels akin to _worship_.

“You really took a lot of them,” he tries, hoping to not sound as moved as he feels, closing the book in the need of a moment to recollect himself. “Did you finish your portfolio?”

Yuuri hums, now against his shoulder, giving him a small shrug. “I did, but it won’t do me any good until we get a sponsorship. Phichit and Seung-gil suggested we do an exhibit together, but well—I guess we’ll have to wait, and see.”

At this moment, he knows exactly what to say.

It would be a lie to claim this is anything like his many spur-of-the-moment decisions, for the thought has been in his mind for a while, almost in a permanent state of consideration for many days and weeks ever since seeing a few samples of Yuuri’s work—and even more so after this, following his contact with such a raw passion for an art form previously so unfamiliar to him. And it’s like falling in love all over again, through ebony eyes and the lenses of a camera, through _himself_ , reflected in the varnished echo imprinted on a thin canvas.

“I could be your sponsor,” he says, and when Yuuri tenses, stepping away in a haste as if Viktor had suddenly grown an extra head, his stomach churns painfully at the gap that separates them. “What?”

“This isn’t funny.”

He blinks, genuinely puzzled by Yuuri’s reaction.

“Was it supposed to be?”

Yuuri shakes his head, countenance stained by an agonizing brand of disbelief. He puts a little more distance between them, and Viktor instantly knows it to be not only of the physical kind.

“Do you really think I need your—your _pity_?” he spats out, refusing to meet his eyes. Face burning in shame and anger alike, a few tears start forming at the corner of his eyes. “I know that I. That I was pretty obvious about liking you— _loving_ you. But you don’t need to do this just because of what… We did. Last night.”

… _Oh_.

Oh, no.

“ _Yuuri_. Yuuri, _no_!” Viktor shakes his head, absolutely mortified at the suggestion. “Why would I—this isn’t _pity_. Your work is astounding! It’s like you make music through the images, like you transport us right to the very second you took those pictures. Like a beautiful, intimate moment… It’s a form of art. One that grows faster than any other. And I would be foolish for not being interested in it; in _yours_. _Your_ work.”

And with that, Yuuri is frozen in place, his mouth shaped in a soundless and seemingly permanent _O_ as his eyes grow wide in surprise; but the thing is, his tears don’t go away, but actually start to come down instead. Yuuri’s hands fly up to his mouth as if he’s trying to keep something silent within, and as much as Viktor wishes to wrap his arms reassuringly around his frame, he isn’t sure if that’d be the best option. Even so, he steps closer, bending slightly on his knees so he’s on eye level with Yuuri.

“Do—do you mean that?” he asks, voice faint as he tries to sniff the tears away.

To Viktor, there’s no need for hesitation.

“ _Yes_. Yes, I do, my Yuuri.”

He opens his arms, heart singing once his love allows himself to be embraced, tension melting away as Viktor once again rests his lips against Yuuri’s hairline and makes soothing patterns at his lower back. Minutes roll by, and long after his love has stopped crying, a cheerful thought comes to him, slowly but surely, making happiness warm up his body from head to toe.

“So you love me, huh?”

Yuuri gently smacks at his arm, blushing to the roots of his hair as Viktor laughs adoringly at their unexpected skittishness. If this is what he may revel in for the rest of his days, he’s eternally glad to have finally gotten started on living.

 

Months before, if he had to guess how photography exhibits usually went, his answer would certainly _not_ be this.

Although very similar to standard exhibits to a point, all visitors seem more relaxed, more true to their nature—it allows for genuine appreciation rather than pretentious scrutiny, regardless of the social standing of those who decided to attend the event. Many of the guests are part of Viktor’s extensive list of contacts gathered throughout the years, from wealthy personalities long introduced to the world of Fine Arts to people recently brought to the peak of financial standing. Some of them were called by Yuuri and his group of friends, a few of them which were also granted a spot in the exhibition.

The event is overall packed, with a decent waiting line on the outside of the building and a few people with reservations that have yet to arrive; half of the photographs submitted for the event have already been successfully auctioned for shockingly high prices, most of them being Yuuri’s work—which serves to fire Viktor’s pride over his _boyfriend_ ’s abilities even further.

And it would’ve been great to see it first-hand, if his new intern and personal assistant—little Yuri, 'Yurio' as he’d call him, crowns made out of plastic flowers and sporting a tongue as venomous as a snake’s, _that_ Yuri—hadn’t royally miscalculated his schedule for the day, much likely on purpose. Viktor hadn’t even _seen_ the pictures that (his) Yuuri had chosen for the exhibition, and could only hope his love would be in one piece once he arrived at the event.

Strangely, as a sponsor, Viktor has never felt quite this anxious, although he’s still pretty confident concerning his client’s success.

Unsurprisingly, as a romantic partner, Viktor is about to explode.

After he finally, _finally_ arrives at the exhibition, he’s relieved to see the reports passed on to him by Mila from the Sales Department are actually correct. Even with his special pass as a Staff member, it still takes him nearly eight minutes to get inside.

The pictures hanging from the walls are as big as paintings, proudly displayed with their titles and respective artist’s name right below. And despite his rush to see Yuuri, Viktor can’t help himself from lingering at each new artwork he passes by.

Phichit has an obvious fixation with small animals and cold hues, neon lights and bar drinks, playing with the concept of perspective and points of view, and perhaps the one who comes the closest to the world of paints and brushes as Viktor knows it; Seung-gil wears melancholy like no other, the center of his compositions always as faceless individuals and dead blossoms, spilled water and broken glass, retaining the ideals of black-and-white canvases almost in a religious manner.

And if they are both the moon and the sky, Yuuri is most definitely the sun.

Striking colors and sharp edges, clear cuts of light and shadow, streets bathed in dusk to dawn; vines of trees that twist and turn, curling around the viewer’s soul only to sprout a singular and compelling tale at the end, charming beyond recognition. It’s almost akin to being embraced, bewitched, soaked with the daybreak; a story told in the passing of a soul-driven season rather than printed words.

Viktor is positively ecstatic, overjoyed, on the brink of a rhapsodic meltdown, until—

 _Until_.

He lays his eyes on Yuuri’s main artwork for the exhibition, set higher than any of the others, monumental and breathtaking.

And it’s _Viktor_.

Sitting among the flowers of his garden, elegant and remote, mooning, yet uncharacteristically _open_ , painted by the glimmer of a sun that falls intrinsically for him. 

‘ _The Golden Hour  
__—by Yuuri Katsuki_ _’_

… Oh.

“Viktor!” Yuuri calls, from what can only be a few feet away from him. And it’s like the seconds start progressing in slow motion, after that.

His heart swells and dies within his chest, overtaken by the most radiant of emotions, only to be set ablaze and reborn in the blink of an eye; rejoiced, made from new.

Viktor charges forward, and for all intents and purposes, _flings_ himself into Yuuri’s arms, locking their lips together in an outburst of love and passion.

As they fall, he makes sure to cup the back of Yuuri’s head to prevent him from getting hurt. His love embraces him, caressing his cheek and stopping only to brush a stray tear away. Viktor swallows at the pleasant lump in his throat with a weak grin.

“It almost looks like a marriage proposal,” he says, voice mellow and faint.

Yuuri smiles with his heart.

“You’ll have to wait just a little bit longer for that, I’m afraid,” Yuuri counters, and once again, it’s almost like the entire world disappears from around them.

Viktor pulls him for another kiss, certainly the happiest he’s ever been in all his life, ultimately _alive_ like never before.

And if any of the patrons are left to wait patiently in order to congratulate Yuuri on his magnificent work, at least they are presented with the opportunity to watch such an spectacular sentiment unravel—for the pair is undoubtedly the most stunning, devastatingly happy sight and picture ever to be captured by the human eye.

**Author's Note:**

> .  
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>  wINK  
> feedback is loved! (◕▿◕✿)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [The Blue Hour](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15127889) by [izzyisozaki](https://archiveofourown.org/users/izzyisozaki/pseuds/izzyisozaki), [monomania](https://archiveofourown.org/users/monomania/pseuds/monomania)




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